Twinkle Twinkle
by Twi-Red-Ruxi
Summary: Death was an unwelcome but expected visitor. It didn't make it any easier though. Especially when it came to someone like Billy Joe Cobra. Angsty oneshot, headcanons exploration. (Shameless attempt at giving feels to the fandom.)


**Author's Note: Hello! Time for another cartoon fic. I hope to give the fandom some sad feels with this one. **

**This was inspired by Aisha's headcanon regarding BJC's death. Due to a coloring error in the show, during the flashbacks the inside of alive!Billy's mouth was weirdly colored (purple?) and this could be taken as a symptom of metal poisoning. Ugh, nasty. Poor Billy. :C**

**Disclaimer: THIS IS PURELY FAN-MADE!**

**Trigger warning: necrophobia (fear of dead things), thanatophobia (fear of death).**

* * *

She got a phone call from Phil as she was tidying up around her house; this was suspicious altogether, since she had the entire week off. His voice was tense and sounded like he was trying very hard not to punch something.

"Phil? What's up? Something happened?" Pause. "Margaret…" The man began and that – calling her by her full first name - was the second sign that something was not right.

She listened to her co-worker on the other end of the line. Silence… The phone almost slipped from her hand once she processed what she had just been told, rendered speechless.

"Marge? You still there?" She stared wide-eyed in empty space, then shook her head, trying to get her bearings.

"Y-yeah, I'm here. I'm here." The woman then took a deep breath. "Are you sure?" She knew the question was silly; Phil was the one of the best in his profession and wouldn't make any statements unless he was sure that they were true, but she couldn't help but ask and hope he'd understand. She heard him sigh deeply, like she rarely heard him do, like he was bone deep tired. Her knuckles went white from her grip on the phone as she realized how serious he was. "Yeah Marge. It's true." She inhaled sharply at that, unsure of what to feel at that. She sat down, trying to think of something to say.

"…Is there anything I can do?"

Phil paused.

"They want his personal staff on the premises." Marge nodded, despite the man not being able to see it. "So will I be seeing you there too?"

"Of course." Phil's tone was even, categorical. Of course he would be. Of course. "Dead or not, taking care of the kid is still my priority."

* * *

He had been found in his favorite room, curled up, his skin unusually pale and clammy.

They found him approximately two hours after his heart stopped beating; yet as they moved his head, the staff saw clear lines of moisture still on his face, tiny droplets still clinging to his eyelashes. His hands had curled up into fists so tightly they stayed that way and couldn't be pried open without the risk of breaking his fingers.

He had been alone.

He must have been in horrible pain.

Marge had been told no more than that.

* * *

There was an autopsy first. Marge tried not to think about his oh-so-thin wrists and frail looking elongated torso. - Where did his heart fit so close to his big singer lungs? (He had a heart; she personally witnessed events which proved it, and sometimes it looked like his chest cavity was like a TARDIS.)- She tried not to think of a knife gliding through his skin and exposing the softness underneath in order to find out what tore him apart.

* * *

As she came into his room, she took in her former employer's body. Was he really? Despite being a woman in her mid-forties with 20 years of experience as a stylist and makeup artist in Hollywood, she had never had an employer of hers die during her contract. She wasn't sure what she was now. But she had been summoned by his manager to do one last job, and she was there to honor it.

Metal poisoning. So slow and gradual, all the subtle signs which could've been symptoms had been taken as a simple illness or the quirks of a diva queen. Nobody suspected a thing until it had been too late. She remembered him rubbing his temples claiming a headache and his wobbly steps and lack of proper balance, and how it led his staff to think he was just having a hangover or something. He had stomach pains sometimes and the blame was mostly placed on his unhealthy diet. He ate fast food, was willing to try exotic dishes too and he loved sweets with a passion. There were rumors he used drugs and his manager yelled at everyone once he found out. The rockstar often took breaks from the set and people rolled their eyes and tried not to lose their temper while he was probably being sick in the bathroom.

He was still a kid, she thought; her stomach heavy, as she took in his familiar lanky form, stretched on his bed and unnaturally still. She had seen death before. But it never got easier.

Especially when it came to a controversial figure such as Billy. She slowly approached him and observed his face carefully. His face, expressionless, quiet, seemed so odd... Even in his sleep he used to smile and mumble and snore and purr, tossing and turning with his chest visibly rising as he inhaled sharply. His dark hair and sickly pale skin made the contrast all the more sickening and she was struck that he looked so very _dead._

The kid always made a face; always had an expression gracing his features, depicting the skittish energy constantly crawling under his skin. Now, with his face smooth and relaxed, his distinctive features seemed lost; his expressive energy was what made him stand out. Now he looked utterly plain, like a face you could pass over on the street, like one you would _forget_.

Marge's hand glided softly above Billy – oh God, this was Billy, dear sweet Billy Joe, the brat with his heart on his sleeve; who loved his fans and took pride in his groupies and hated crunchy peanut butter and did not ever have a proper social life but lived his biggest dream and _sang._

He sang for Phil's birthday in a private concert after recklessly pranking him for a whole day and gave the staff enough cake they all brought some home for their own families. He was Billy Joe Cobra, the kid who earned a fortune by himself and he tossed money all around like the frivolous sultan throwing gold coins on the streets; people criticized him tremendously, the paparazzi were ruthless and yet _he really loved himself_. This was the snotty brat who came two days late for a film shoot, who refused to work with someone because of a cameraman's jeans and trashed everything to maintain his 'bad-boy image'. He couldn't remember everyone's names so he called them 'darling'. Billy Joe Cobra, the teenage prodigy musician with a tiresome playful streak and the closest being to him was his pet alligator who he lovingly pampered like a father would his daughter.

She looked at his face and gently placed her hand on his cheek. He had cried while slowly dying. Did he know? Had he been aware of the life draining away from his bones? Or had he been in just too much pain to be aware of anything? Oh God, what an awful way to end. He had been alone. Thousands of people cared about him and he died alone.

Marge was startled by her own tears gliding down the slope of her nose as she looked at what remained of a young boy she once worked for. The drops fell down and reached his cheeks and it looked like Billy was crying all over again. She put a hand to her mouth to try and stop any sobs that felt like coming out. It wasn't fair. The poor boy didn't deserve this.

"You've always made such a mess of things." She sniffled, stroking his dark hair gently as she tried to compose herself. "You have no idea." She traced his temple and looked at the dark lines under his eyelids as she talked – as if expecting him to listen to her –at least now. "You've always been such a brat." The woman swallowed the lump in her throat as she continued, smiling weakly. "I guess you'll be standing still enough for me to do my work properly for once, Billy Joe."

She reached for her make-up kit. It would be a first for her, working on a deceased person. But this was still her boss, at least for a little while. She had been the one he came to in order to get ready for all his photo shoots and videos for the last five years. She knew his features and his preferences like no other and she was a professional and it was her job to take care of Billy Joe Cobra's appearance. Like hell she'd abandon him now.

She grabbed her brush and her lips twisted in a bittersweet smile as the familiar phrase easily flowed off her lips.

- "Time to get your swag on, kid."

* * *

Security was air-tight. The bodyguards had been patrolling the premises the entire time and none disrupted the schedule. Everyone was doing their jobs with utmost seriousness and the dignified air of mature adults, prompt and efficient. It was unlike the way it had ever been when working with Billy Joe Cobra. It was like they had always wanted to imagine their work-time like.

Everyone had a grimace on their face now whenever they remembered that, like guilt weighted just as heavy in their stomachs as the bitter taste in their mouths.

The place was as busy as usual but the atmosphere was so different. The past seemed not so bad anymore, all the chaos and explosive playfulness – it became familiar enough to make the staff wistful thinking about it. It was almost as if they were missing the stupid kid.

While everyone was being productive and - for once - actually getting the job done in due time, one of the bodyguards got enough extra time to check up on…well.

The room was so normal looking; it was surreal to think that such an event had taken place. He was already in his coffin - a shiny ebony black one with silver handles and dark red plush interior- and he seemed so out of place in his own house.

The man approached his charge – what was the last of him at least.

He was a tough guy, a professional and he saw his fair share of trouble. And death.

This was a kid who died during security's watch. This brat who constantly rubbed everyone the wrong way and dedicated songs to himself because he had never been in love. This young man with heavy dark bags under his eyes because he worked to please – himself, his fans. This. This what was left of him.

His earpiece told him they had five minutes before moving out.

And Billy Joe Cobra's coffin was going to be carried out of his home and shown to the whole world before being buried six feet under. The casket was to remain closed, since it had been deemed too cruel otherwise; this was a boy who looked dead and at his most vulnerable, the rest of the world would probably be better off by only remembering him as he was alive. And yet, due to all of the attention his name got, despite it being a private service, it still felt like putting him on a stage nonetheless, a sick kind of exhibition. His name was well-known, just like Billy had always wanted.

The man barely touched the smooth polished wood with the tips of his fingers; a tiny crack of unprofessional-ism to show some humanity. He didn't look at the face too closely, just like he always did in front of the kid as a way of telling him he was not to be messed with. Childish brat.

"Your music is still too noisy, kid." He got out with a straight face stubbornly put on.

He looked at the boy's forehead, pale with his hair swept to the right and he was swiftly reminded of the traditional kimonos for the dead. He lightly tapped the wood with his knuckles twice. (_Pay attention for once, you punk.)_ And he looked at him for one last time and said…

"You go, kid."

" _You go up there and show 'em who's the star_."

* * *

**I repeat, please report in case of feels. I'm really curious about that. :D**

(Headcanon:everyone older than Billy tended to call him "kid", "brat" and such, if not out loud at least in their own heads. So his real age isn't pinpointed here.)

**Oh yeah, and did anyone catch the references?**

**TARDIS** - from Doctor Who, a space ship known for being bigger on the inside

**his hair swept towards the right/ kimonos for the dead** - from traditional Japanese customs:"During life, both men and women cross the front of a kimono with the left side over the right. On those occasions in which the corpse is clothed in a traditional kimono, the kimono is crossed right over left." I think it has to do with the heart, since it's more towards the left and the dead wear it right over left it's like a symbol of it not beating anymore.

Also** a few references to the nursery rhyme "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"**, since it kept popping in my mind while writing this.

_Metaphors man, metaphors everywhere. XD_


End file.
